You are not a cog

I used to do this thing when I was a kid. Pillows go down first. Those were the hills. Then a blanket went on top. That was the battlefield. After that, I set my little green plastic soldiers, tanks, and cannons in place. WWII went on for years in my basement. The fun was in setting the pieces up for the bombing raid.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Fun!

Then I’d reset until Gilligan’s Island came on the TV (the snowy channel from Bangor. Maine).

One day, my father burst into the room looking irritated, frantic even. “You’re playin’ all the time! Every time I see you, you’re playin’!

And I was like, “Dad, I’m nine.”

The mindset became ingrained, though. Protestant Work Ethic, we called it, as if work wasn’t hard enough we had to bring religion into it. As if people of other faiths weren’t all busting their asses, too.

The core concept was this: If you aren’t doing something to make money, you’re valueless.

Given a single quiet moment, my father would announce it was time to mow the lawn or clean out the garage. When you’re ordered to clean out the garage every five weeks, you really want to torch the place.

Mom was no different. I don’t recall her sitting down until she was confined to a wheelchair. She hated it if anyone dared to have a nap. Her favorite line was, “The day’s a-wastin’!

We are blind to the things we take for granted. The sky is blue, grass is green, and we’re put on Earth to rise and grind, life’s a bitch and then you die.

We don’t know what we don’t know.

The Epidemic of Busyness

A friend of mine organized a TEDx Talk in Chicago. I watched it this morning. The first speaker observed that we are suffering several epidemics: COVID-19, of course, but racism and economic challenges, too. She spoke eloquently about busyness and her speech really got me thinking how much I’ve messed up the first half of the year. I’ve indulged in bad thinking that does not serve me, but I’m working on it.

When we went into quarantine, many of us didn’t know how to handle it. We were unprepared for the pattern break. Lifting our noses from the grindstone, many of us thought, what do I do with myself? If I’m not working and producing every hour, this must be sin. And was it necessary to commute to work to put my nose to that grindstone? It hurts.

Have you seen this meme?

We have to stop talking as if we’re “working from home” when we’re actually living where we work.

My wife, the thoughtful psychologist, prefers this: We’re not working from home. We’re living at home and trying to get work done.

It is quite a privilege to work from home, of course. While the rest of us complained about confinement and got deeply into making sourdough bread starters, nurses, doctors, delivery people, and grocery store workers didn’t get to have that “time off.” There’s understandable guilt in allowing essential workers to take the biggest hit, especially when they don’t receive hazard pay and adequate protection. (That issue is a whole other blog post.)

There’s also the guilt of feeling we should be doing more with our time. I’d like to absolve you of that last bit. I’m still trying to break those chains myself.

You have value even when you aren’t working

“Playing video games is not wasted time.”

The first time I heard that sentence, it was a genuine challenge for me. After all, the day’s a-wastin’! But you know what? Those video games were fun. Lots of dopamine hits. Relaxation. Relaxation is healthy. Going for a walk without a particular purpose in mind is healthy.

We often fail to value relaxation because Capitalism doesn’t value downtime. “Downtime” as in, “The production line is down! Quick, pull that injured worker off the line, toss in another sacrifice, and crank ‘er up again! We’re losing money!”

If you don’t think about it too hard, it’s easy to call poor people lazy. When you do think about it for more than a second, you realize that the poorest among us tend to be among the hardest workers. How many jobs, gigs, and side hustles does it take the average person to cobble together a decent living? How much downtime do they get from their non-living wages? How much of living do they get to enjoy?

Answer: You won’t find poor people on the golf course unless they’re mowing it.

Hardcore proponents of everlasting economic growth aren’t comfortable with you having any fun unless they’re selling it to you. “Don’t just stay home! Get out there and feed the economy!” Idleness, in any form, is suspect.

When we fall for this trap, we fail to value ourselves.

Dad’s become a little wiser in his later years. Now, when I feel like I’m not writing enough or selling enough books, he says, “Even birds don’t fly all the time.”

I’m not lazy, but I still berate myself for not getting more done. I’m trying to break that habit. I don’t have the toy soldiers, anymore, but sometimes, when my son is out, I get on his computer and play Sniper Elite 4.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Fun!

Every Evil Thing

Seen on the internet: Did you have a happy childhood or are you funny?

Last night I went on a long walk. Usually, I have my earbuds in. Craving stimulation, I listen to podcasts (mostly about how the world is falling down and the landing won’t be a soft one). If I want to walk faster, I’ll pump music into my head and swing my arms faster. On this stroll, I was in a mood to ruminate. I walked in silence for a change, listening for what my brain offered up. Unless I’m at my keyboard engaging in the writing life, this is generally a bad move.

Sunny people see a sunset and enjoy the beauty. I move on from those feelings quickly. The looming sunset in a silent sky served as an existential reminder of Nature’s cold indifference. I can be funny, but my nature is not sunny. Irony and dark humor? A lot of that comes from a dark place.

And so I plunged headlong into the past

Passing through a stand of trees, the green aroma pulled me back to memories of Nova Scotia, where I grew up. I ran through a lot of woods in those days. If I did that now, all I’d think about would be ticks and Lyme Disease. (I’m fun at parties, but that’s hard to imagine, isn’t it?)

We like to think we are proactive, a cause in the world. Sometimes, history condemns us to little more than an effect. My father refers to Nova Scotia as “God’s Country.” I would say it is a nice place to visit. It’s not all bad, not at all. I miss the sound of foghorns lowing to each other when a thick white blanket falls over Halifax Harbour. I miss Atomic Subs on Jubilee Road (sadly and inexplicably, long gone). In my hometown, the #4 Special at the House of Cheng was special. There are kind people there, but my mind doesn’t allow me to remember much of that.

Years ago, I met a fellow at a party who was born in the same hospital as me. Though he never actually lived there, he rhapsodized about how great our little town was. He became irritated when my lived experience didn’t match his fantasy. He seemed eager to overlook the casual racism, for instance. I could never watch an episode of Trailer Park Boys. I knew too many guys like that in real life to find it funny. I recognize that people are just as different and also the same everywhere. Human failings and mental deficits are certainly not unique to that place. However, painful memories specific to me lie there in the shadows. I am haunted.

When I wrote The Night Man, the town of Lake Orion, Michigan is just as much a character as it is a setting. I grew up in a small town. I know what it’s like when everyone remembers you from when you were in diapers. I remember how gossip is an engine that never stops revving. Growing up where I did informed Ernest “Easy” Jack’s experience of coming home to Orion. I have plenty of ghost voices in my head. They’re useful for what I do for a living.

History is generic, trauma is personal

The writing life is a sedentary one. I aim for 10,000 steps a day. Last night was a 14,000 step walk, plenty of time to dwell on regrets, unforced errors, my own shittiness, and the shots not taken.

Unfortunately, I have an eidetic memory for every negative thing I’ve witnessed. In perfect, excruciating detail, I remember the look on my mother’s face the last time I saw her. On her deathbed, she was furious, angry that she was dying, at how unfair it was. Loathing any display of weakness, she seemed most rageful that she was not immortal.

I remember every unkind word spoken to me like a fresh wound. I have always had a problem with authority and giving up control. In childhood, the locus of control is always elsewhere. Perhaps that’s why that time can feel so terrible. Everything feels important, even when it isn’t. Every failing is the end of the world. Everything is taken personally. (Still is.)

Indoctrinated into ideas I now find abhorrent, young adulthood was difficult, too. I couldn’t get hold of all the variables that might allow me enough independence to be left the hell alone. I was told I was too young to have a valid opinion, that my thoughts and feelings did not matter. I think some people might be getting better at valuing children so they learn to better value themselves and others. Sadly, there’s still a better than average chance you were told the same things I was. Maybe you got over it. I hold grudges.

I’m still resentful of the interview for the publishing job where I was told that, if hired, I couldn’t possibly have a valid opinion for the next seven years. Shit, why not just go train to be a brain surgeon? I’d get to a position where I counted as a human being a lot faster that way. Or how about those job interviews for newspapers where the interviewers tried to bully me? That didn’t go well for them and I learned that I was truculent. (That’s also how I learned the word truculent.)

I know grudges are not healthy, but I don’t know how to unring that bell.


In silence, my busy brain breaks open the floodgates: the crazy Spanish lady I should have fired, the landlord who cheated me, the boss who scooped up my commission bonus, the thousand little affronts, the threats of assault, the bickering, the anger that’s always simmering…the constant grating sense that for every little win I might eke out, I’m still behind and losing ground. The near-certainty that I WILL NEVER BE ENOUGH.

Thinking about it last night, I will never return to Nova Scotia. Though I enjoy being in faraway places, I hate the process of traveling. The last time I flew, my left eardrum burst. With a pandemic burning across the world, staying in my blanket fort is best. I still have family Down East, but it’s a long way to go to be told I’ve gained weight and my hair has turned white (as if I didn’t know).

I don’t feel a desperate need to be underestimated and condescended to in person. I outsource my self-esteem and moods to strangers on the internet (AKA book reviewers). Besides, there are lovely tourist destinations calling. Why go for awkward personal interactions where criticism is mistaken for love? Some families write off cruelty as “teasing” or “banter” where they are rude to relatives in ways that would rightly earn them a bloody nose from a stranger. Exposure to conflict does not breed warm feelings. It often breeds anxiety and hypervigilance.

Conflict used to be a steady diet for me. My interactions with the public are rare now. Through careful choices, astonishing luck, hard work, and seclusion, I’ve edited out most potential for conflict. It’s a peaceful, contained, and controlled life wherein I often manage substitute humor for anger. I write in a literal blanket fort, for God’s sake! However, since I worked in retail from the age of 13, I’ve got plenty of drama to draw on to spin my stories of murder and mayhem.

I remember very well the urge to commit homicide, for instance. That coworker deserved it. That feeling is still handy, anytime I reach out to fire up those neurons. Humiliation, rage, and fear are all on call, ready to flow into the keyboard. All our experiences can be rewoven to create new patterns, new characters. To weave plots, to tell engaging and relatable stories, pain is useful.

Despite time and growth, I remain hypervigilant and anxious. I still feel that I will never be enough and that I am losing ground. If you are, like me, a writer who can’t let go of every evil thing, use that shit.

If you’re a reader, enjoy it.

~ Interested in reading The Night Man? Find out what happens when the prodigal son leaves the war abroad and finds a new, more insidious plot at home.

Happy Endings and Cover Reveals

I write a lot about the end of the world.

I remember reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy and thinking, wow, this is relentlessly grim. However, there is a tiny crack of light at the end of the tale. The only apocalyptic tale that really bothered me was the end of The Mist, the movie that was based on a Stephen King story. The film concludes on a very sad note that is not in King’s original story. In print, the ending was more ambiguous but left the reader thinking there might yet be a future for the survivors..

After writing the final book of the This Plague of Days trilogy, I was contacted by a reader asking if I would write a happier ending in the future. No spoilers for the uninitiated, but I will say this: There is a high note of hope at the end of the journey of This Plague of Days. However, I would never make it my policy to finish any story with a mandatory Happily Ever After. You’re not supposed to pound jigsaw pieces into the puzzle to make them fit.

I strive to write satisfying and surprising endings. Sometimes there’s hope, like with Citizen Second Class. Sometimes the ending is a bit more ambiguous and left to the reader to draw their own conclusions, as with Amid Mortal Words. The conclusions you draw there will depend on your view of humanity’s potential. Whatever happens, the conclusion must not betray the logical advancement of the narrative.

I always want an ending that sticks with the reader long after they finish the book. I hope you’ll find that in all my novels and short stories. The ending probably won’t be expected, but you will think, BOOM! Oh, yeah!

I’m very proud of Citizen Second Class and Amid Mortal Words. The reviews are few, but the readers who find these novels enjoy them.

In Citizen Second Class, a young woman finds herself in the middle of a rebellion against the last of the ruling class, holed up in a fortress of the Select Few in New Atlanta.

In Amid Mortal Words, an Air Force officer meets a stranger on a train who leaves him with a book that could end the world or save it. All he has to do is read passages from the book and bad people die. But that’s not all the book can do.

To help browsers become readers, in the last couple of days I changed the covers hoping to better meet reader expectations (translation: seduce you and make you tremble in shivering anticipation as you hit the buy button.)

If you haven’t read these books yet, I’d start with Citizen Second Class. It’s a novel that is ripe for this moment in American history. As the new cover quote suggests:

“An all-too plausible vision of a near-future nightmare.” ~ Philip Harris, author of The Leah King Trilogy.

Or heck, buy ’em both. Buy ’em all. There you go.

Podcast Signal Boosts

Worst Year Ever Podcast

I’m not selling a lot of books right now. People are otherwise engaged, whether they are marching in the streets or glued to their screens. I understand completely. Rather than flog my books about fictional apocalypses, it feels incumbent upon me to acknowledge the reality of the chaos. Like many others, I predicted this unrest. That gives me no solace. I worry for my American friends and readers. The images of violence against peaceful protesters leave me with nothing but hot outrage.

Mr. George Floyd was murdered. The officers who aided and abetted the policeman who knelt on his neck for eight minutes and forty-six seconds are still free. We saw it. No excuses. Police departments need reform. They need to know they’ll be held accountable for their actions. If you don’t believe that, please don’t read my books. You wouldn’t like them, anyway.

If you are politically minded (and perhaps especially if you are not) I recommend two podcasts to add to your listening queue: Worst Year Ever (above) and The Professional Left.

Too much? Need some stress relief?


Professional Left hosts Driftglass and Blue Gal are also huge fans of science fiction and have kindly mentioned my books on their show. If you’re a scifi fan who needs a break and a happy distraction, I also recommend their other very thoughtful and fun podcast, Science Fiction University. They discuss old-school science fiction. It’s a clever deep dive and a delight. Nerd out with Driftglass and Blue Gal over SF fiction and movies.

All I’ve got for you

I have witnessed police act like thugs and bullies to the citizens they were sworn to protect. Last night, two NYPD police SUVs rammed into a crowd of peaceful protesters behind a barrier. Ordinary citizens are having to step up to protect their neighborhoods. To be perfectly honest, I don’t have a lot of hope at the moment.

The murder of George Floyd was a horrific act, but of course it is not isolated. Sandra Bland, Amaud Arbery, Tamir Rice, Breonna Taylor, and Eric Garner come to mind first, but that’s just off the top of my head. (Here’s more if you need reminding.)

Over and over, through the night and across the country, we saw more video of the kind of actions that are being protested. Although Seattle police were ordered to turn off their body cams, there is ample evidence that many bad actors have no fear of being filmed while they commit criminal acts. They aren’t helping their cause. They’re often making things worse. They’ve discarded their oaths. They are neither serving nor protecting. Remember when we used to call them peace officers? Instead, they’re often militarized and failing to deescalate.

Don’t tell me policing is a hard job. Surely they knew that when they signed up. You know what’s hard? Being an unarmed black man, woman, or child trying to live and get by without harassment, fear and subjugation.

There have been a few bright spots. One senior police official told those under his command that if they’re okay with the mistreatment and murder of George Floyd, they must turn in their badges immediately. The police chief in Louisville marched with the protesters. That’s a good way to go, but there’s a lot of distance between what ought to be and what is.

It’s frustrating to watch America dissemble and disassemble, but this was all too predictable. Rebellion comes from a perfect storm of several variables and systemic racism is only one component. Health care failures, failure of leadership, the coronavirus, the rent crisis, tossing Americans $1200 that was supposed to somehow last ten weeks. Many Americans didn’t even get that $1200 and no more relief is in sight. There are more Americans unemployed than there are Canadians on Earth. You can’t demand the oppressed to be patient forever without offering some hope of real change.

For your consideration:

Mike Schmidt’s latest podcast episode is called I’m in the Club. It’s about what’s happening to his country right now. Mike’s great at articulating frustration. I recommend it. It’s NSFW, but neither is America.

A while back, I recommended the podcast called It Could Happen Here, a thoughtful take on the potential for America falling into rebellion and ruin. Here’s the link:

And here’s the link to my most recent recording, “The Face of Victory.”

Taken from one of my anthologies, All Empires Fall, this audio short story was meant to be near-future science fiction about a peaceful protest that goes very wrong. Today it feels all too prescient.

For a longer read and a deeper dive:

For a novel about the gap between rich and poor and what it means for the soul of America, check out Citizen Second Class. It’s about what happens when the rich press the poor down for so long and so hard that, in desperation, they are forced to rise up.

I take no pleasure in watching what is happening in the United States. I have so many friends and readers who live there and I am worried for them. Future historians will spend their entire careers and write many books about the Trump era generally and 2020 in particular.

Frustrated and helpless, I can offer my best wishes for their safety, but what is that worth, really? It’s a civil war and a horror. It’s a rebellion. Thoughts and prayers are insufficient. Only change will do, but I see no path forward at the moment.

I can offer podcasts to articulate the crisis. I can offer fiction to provide distraction and stress relief. I’m so sorry that’s all I’ve got.

The Face of Victory



mybook.to/AllEmpiresFall


mybook.to/AllEmpiresFall

People are starving for food and equality across the United States. Jennifer Charles worked in a food bank and puts up posters to call people to demonstrate against her government’s ineptitude and callousness. Her defiance makes her a target.

Listen to this story now, read by the author.

The Face of Victory is a story about how revolutions begin. You’ll find it in my collection, All Empires Fall, Signals from the Apocalypse.

Enjoy your audio sample of Citizen Second Class

Citizen Second Class
Available from Amazon in ebook and paperback
Listen now to the first chapter of Citizen Second Class

Click the play button to hear the first chapter of Citizen Second Class

About the Citizen Second Class:

The revolution is about to begin!

America has fallen to fascism. The rich have retreated behind the walls of the fortress they call New Atlanta. They won’t give up their power easily.

Oppression and starvation gave birth to the Resistance, but every rebellion needs a champion. Desperate to save her grandmother from starvation, Kismet Beatriz must make the journey to infiltrate the stronghold of the Select Few. 

From the author of This Plague of Days comes a near-future thriller built for fans of Nineteen Eighty-four and The Handmaid’s Tale.Â